Classic Poem

She is sick

Well you wound, and sick you Kill
Which ill
Attends those who you adore
And more
For the first's a languishing
dying
And the the second though't be death
Leaves breath
To bemone onse desperate
estate
Leave to be the other th'one
is none
Wound me not in health I vowe
to you
Your afflictions neaver shall
my fall
Ingender, but I shall smile
the while
You weepe, when you laugh I'le morne
in scorne
Of your contempts, and soe end
As your self shall please your frend.